Mackerel sky

Today I drive again.  My first venture was to the doctor to get blood drawn.  Hardly something to look forward to, but still... I traveled alone, listened to my choice of music.  On the way home I saw the mackerel sky.

Today I determine

When I leave,

When I return home.

The car travels the route

I determine.

Overhead the clouds

Proclaim

Mackerel sky

Mirror fish scales

Out of sight

Swimming

Swimming

In lakes and ponds,

Oceans and seas.

Today I swim

Determine the venue

How I will arrive

How I will leave

Road or stream

I see

Mackerel sky

Mackerel sky

The clouds proclaim

Endless possibility.

Dreams melt

This weekend my dreams combined people from past parishes with my current parish, even as we were in Denver exploring possibilities for next year, and I celebrated year 59.  We are home now. The cat seems grateful.  I am grateful for another year of living, and looking forward to the coming year, even as I dream of  people and time and experiences melted together.  Maybe spring is finally here.  

Dreams melt

Pieces of history together

Like so many

Wax color crayons

Left in the sun.

People who have never met

Have rich engaging conversations

At night.

At night they even appear

Fast friends.

Dreams melt

Places and times together

Childhood trips to the beach

Take a single minute

End in mountain snow.

At night.

At night vacations

Meld the train trip to California

At age seven

With the time we rented a car

In our fifties.

Drove the hill country around L.A.

Me in the back seat

The GPS steering us in the wrong direction

For ice cream.

Dreams melt

Potentially disparate events

Together.

This weekend

We added Denver to the mix.

I wonder what night conversations

Will be included

By this crayon discovered

In the light of day.

Rain in the night

This week has convinced me, once again, that everyone needs a witness, a listener to the song each of us is singing, whether we sing it well already, or whether it is simply a practice session, for now.

Rain in the night

Wet sidewalks this morning.

The cardinal sings

His spring song.

The robins hop hopeful

For worms.

We added new pussy willows

To the front table.

The weather map shows

Slightly higher temperatures.

There were turnings this week.

We are spending the weekend

In Denver,

Hopeful for spring

As the robins are,

Hopeful  for

More signs of new life.

No forsythia

Pussy willows are hopeful... but still... they're not forsythia.  

So far

It is not a good year

For forsythia.

Last year at this time

Everything was gray and wet

And oh so yellow

Even shining gold.

So far 

This year

No forsythia.

We have refreshed the pussy willows

On the front table,

Made do

With soft gray catkins

Blue sky

Brown lawn.

So far though

No forsythia.

Vendetta

More snow.  Granted... it's not much, but still.... snow?  Really?  Again?

I heard a vendetta

Against snow

Last night,

The simple wrongness

Of it all.

She shoveled snow off her lawn

So it would melt on the driveway.

So often others say

So often others do

What I wish I had the chutzpah

To do. 

Today I consider

The vendetta

The poetic vendetta

As homage to spring.

My shovel awaits.

Life themes

I have a long list of things to wait for.  I also have a long list of things to celebrate now.  We fly out this weekend to look at one of the possible school choices.  The week is a quieter week for me, work-wise.  I plan to enjoy it.  The weather seems to have settled.  This helps my brain function better.  I am grateful.

When I look at

Life themes

Waiting is one the major ones.

Even as I say

Now

Now is just as important

Now is more important even

Still

I am convinced

Only a little.

Even now I wait,

Expectant to drive

Next Monday.

Even now I wait

For all the colleges in the world

To clamor

For my daughter’s presence.

Even now I wait

For a more full spring

For a fuller greening

Than this one hinted

Before my eyes

Even now.

Lenten Saturdays

We have often commented on the ubiquitous Lenten Friday fish fry, restaurants filled with people eating fish.  It was not until yesterday that we discovered the Lenten Saturday throwback at Outback Steakhouse, or the subsequent lack of a wait at the local fish restaurant.  New discoveries await.

Where we eat out

On Saturday night

In Lent

Was a challenge

Until we finally figured

The fish places

Would be empty.

Friday night is seasonally

Not safe

To frequent

Even meat locales.

Friday features

The All You Can Eat

Fish fry

The Lenten fish run

Restaurants full of people

Honoring the season

With fried fish

And tartar sauce.

On Saturday everyone

Eats red meat.

On Saturday night

In Lent

Red Lobster

Is the safest bet.

Roof guy

Decisions made over Saturday early morning coffee with the roof guy tromping overhead.

The roof guy showed

A half hour early

On the only morning this week

We could sleep.

There’s nothing like a ladder

Next to the bedroom window,

Foot thumps

Overhead

On a Saturday morning.

Over coffee we weigh

A new roof

Versus

New windows

Versus

Sending our last born

To college next year

Versus

Doing it

All at once.

The best revenge

With the death of Fred Phelps comes the wealth (or paucity) of thoughts on what he will find in heaven.  May he be embraced and wonderfully surprised at the embrace, as we all will be... embraced and surprised.  Good living is often hard, for all of us, to come by.

The best revenge

Is life well lived.

Good living is often hard

To come by.

First day of spring

I waited and waited for the cranes, but missed them this year.  Still I heard reports, and someone even said she thought of me when she saw and heard the cranes.  On this first day of spring, even with snow on the ground, that is enough sign for me.

I never did hear the cranes

But rather

Heard tell

They flew through

And indeed

Someone thought of me

When they did.

That will

Have to make do.

They flew through

Me with my windows shut.

Someone said

She always thinks of me and cranes

Together.

That is enough for me

To know spring

Is not a figment

This year.

Even with more snow on the ground

The cranes flew through

I never did hear them

But instead heard tell.

I write

This is finally a change I have awaited.  As is often the case with such things, I didn't know I was waiting for this particular change until it arrived.  But here it is.  Right in the middle of dizzying weather changes and learning to live with good brain/bad brain days.  Again I write.  And again I consider playing guitar again.

I write

More reflections on waiting

More reflections on watching

More reflections on paying attention

To the things I have missed

For months

Maybe even years.

I write again.

The days beg me

To write.

So I do.

The spring rain arrives

In the chill.

The seasons turn.

I turn.

I write because

The days simply beg me

To write.

So I do.

Facing forward

I am back to riding shotgun for the month of March.  I expect to drive again in April.  But for now I remember some of the best conversations happen with two people facing forward, eyes on the world, eyes on the road ahead.  It provides a different kind of catching up.  No matter who is driving.  No matter who is riding shotgun.

I find

Some of the best conversations

Are had

Both participants

Facing forward.

One driving

One riding shotgun

Both looking out

On the world.

This seems true

No matter the age

No matter the relationship.

I most always find

New things to hear,

New things to say,

Facing forward.

It matters not

Who drives

Who rides shotgun

There are always

New discoveries.

Evacuation Day

Just as Chicago has its celebration of Casimir Pulaski on March 3, Boston celebrates Evacuation Day on March 17.  This is the real reason the schools are closed and the bars are open and everyone wears green.

Today is conveniently the day

The British left Boston

To its own devices.

Everyone there claims a holiday

On this

Evacuation Day

The bars are filled

With people dressed in green

Shamrocks on their lapels

On this convenient day

When the British

Went home.

Chronological spring

It feels different today.  OK, the anti-depressant helps a ton.  I could be the poster child for this medication.  But still.  It feels different today.  The snow dust feels like simple snow dust.  The cold feels temporary.  The light indeed slants different.  The animals put on the behavior of spring. Chronological spring arrives in less than a week.  I think it may actually come.

Perhaps it’s the date

Chronological spring

Just around the corner

Sure

There was a dust of snow last night

Sure

It is cold today

But sure

The light slants different

Chronological spring

Looms large

The doors open

To snow melted

Grass uncovered

The squirrels in back

Play leap and chase

No snow dust or cold

Deter the sure progression

Chronological spring

Will have its way

Chronological spring

Will surely

Have its way.

Hypomania

This begs the question:  What is hypomania for a born and bred Minnesotan?  Tomorrow will be round three in adventures in an anti-depressant.  Round two has me feeling pretty good.  I suspect round three will have me feeling even better.

There is no blood test

For this medication,

No blood pressure cuff

To indicate

The exact proper dose.

He says the indication

Of too much anti-depressant

Is possibly

Hypomania.

You are a long way from there

He says

A long way.

A little hypomania

Sounds like a good thing

To both of us.

I am from Minnesota:

The land of pretty good

And

Good enough.

There is no blood test

For this medication,

No brain cuff to determine

My mood

And thus

An exact proper dose.

I consider hypomania

Then cutting back

Just a smidge.

Last hurrah, last gasp

It's time.  Today feels like the last snow, or perhaps, just perhaps, the next to last snow.  I wait for the cranes.  A couple of robins have already appeared.  The time change shows things in a new, one hour later, light.

This I think

Is winter’s last hurrah.

It promises to melt

Tomorrow and the next day.

Anything more

Will count as a last gasp

As cranes fly through,

Robins stamp their feet

On snowmelt ground,

Demand worms

To surface,

Cock their heads

Listen

Listen

Listen

For the rising

Of the worms.

The breathing of the earth

Once again.

The inhale

The exhale

The scent of rotting leaves

Left behind

By the last hurrah

The last gasp

Before everything begins again.

My window is open

Facebook brings news of sand hills winging north in Indiana and Michigan.  My window is open. No cranes yet here is my part of Illinois.  Still.  My window is open.

I wait for the sand hill cranes

With the window open.

I need external signs

Of spring,

So I wait

Window open.

The snow melts.

There is more snow to come tonight.

But the cranes

The cranes

Have been heard

In Indiana and Michigan.

My window is open.

I await the cranes

High up.

My window

Is open.

We all wait for green

I wait on the world to change, along with everyone and everyTHING else.   This winter has been my first conscious venture in depression.  With help, therapeutic and chemical, I watch the ice melt off the burning bush and anticipate green.

Through the snow:

A patch of brown grass

Next to the ash tree.

The ice has melted

Off the bare burning bush.

There is mud

On the driveway.

I too

Am brown and bare

And muddy.

We all

Wait for green.

Birthday announcement

Sound asleep, I heard the voice on my phone proclaiming a text from my son.  Fuzzily I tried to answer out loud.  It's a text, said the sleepy voice next to me.  It's a text.

The phone is set

To announce messages

In a tinny female voice.

She woke me this morning

From dream-filled sleep

Proclaimed a text

From my son.

He thanked me

For his birth and life

Here

At the end of his 26^th year

It’s been a good life

He wrote.

I remember it was warm

The day before he was born

One of the first warm days

Of spring

No snow on the ground

It was warm

I tell you

Warm.

His dad and I walked

Around the campus

At the University of Chicago.

We hoped to bring on

Those first pains

Of labor.

He was born the next day

Exactly on his due date,

27 years ago.

Catkins

Lent means spring and Lent comes late this year.  Real spring seems even later.  The time change comes this weekend.  Saving daylight with snow still on the ground seems somehow, well, wrong. But there it is.  I look for reminders.  The light has indeed begun to change   I found pussy willows at the store a couple weeks ago.  I coax them along, trim their bottoms, change their water, hope for a hint of green.

Today a whiff of warm,

Even with snow still on the ground.

I have rearranged the pussy willow branches

On the front table,

Trimmed the bottoms,

Scrubbed the glass,

Changed the water.

God willing the branches will last

Until the snow melts,

Enough catkins holding tight

To the stems,

Maybe even a leaf or two

To carry us over

To crocus

Beside the front door.

Simple Gifts

Simple Gifts (the song) runs through my head today.  I am not at church, being on another driving hiatus.  I will go to church tonight for the Ash Wednesday liturgy to mark the beginning of Lent. Already I feel the changes, the turning and returning, the bowing and bending unlike anything I remember from before.  I think my Lenten journey has been marked out for me.  All that matters is placing one foot in front of the other.  A simple dance.  A simple gift.

I am home bowing and bending

I watch the way life

Has turned

And turned again.

Tonight I will be reminded

I am dust,

To dust I will return.

This is the gift

For today.

A simple gift.

It is one gift

Of oh so many.

Dentist

I have long suspected my nerves are differently ordered.  Here's proof.

This morning the dentist told me

I am part of the 30 per cent.

The nerve

Under my right lower wisdom tooth

Runs in a different channel

Than 70 per cent

Of the world.

I am home now

Numb jawed.

I sip coffee

From the left side

Of my face,

Hope it makes it

Down my throat.